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“Hmm,” she says.

I shrug. “Maybe it’s connected. The bodies were always found somewhere in nature, shaved, no teeth, and they were always women. Maybe we search the Stocktons’ house for a box of ponytails or teeth jars.”

She chews her bottom lip. “Bobbi seems more like the type to steal a mason jar from an estate sale, not de-scalp her victims before stabbing them.”

“It’s always the ones you least expect… What about Arch? I could see if he’s stashing away Rogaine or something.”

She braids her hair. “You’re the one who spent all night laughing with him about trout. What do you think?”

I consider it. The easy-go-lucky smile, the black-rimmed glasses. “I could see it. He’s a nice guy, nice enough that women might fall for it, if it’s an act.”

“I don’t know…” She crouches down, still examining the body. “I feel like we need more evidence. This is suspicious, but not proof. It could be coincidental. Maybe she has no idea a dead body’s here.”

“True,” I drawl. “The tattoo could just be a special place to Bobbi. Same as I’m a motherfuckin’ angel.”

“Hm,” she says, nibbling her bottom lip as she looks at something on the woman’s arm.

I peer closer. “What?”

“Why would the killer leave this for someone to find?” she says, plucking a heart-shaped sapphire ring off the corpse’s finger. “Mine now.”

“You’re stealing from a dead woman?”

“It’s not stealing. It’s evidence.”

“And I don’t kill people, I relieve them of breathing.” I hold out my hand. “Let me see it.”

She tosses it to me, and I turn the ring over in my palm. There’s an engraving on the gold inside. “Look at this.”

She peers over my shoulder to read the word, and I try not to breathe in her floral scent.

Mine.

“What do we think?” I say. “Disturbing or romantic?”

“Definitely disturbing.” She suddenly gasps. “Look at that. There’s a trademark. D and Co.”

“You know it?”

She stuffs the ring in her pocket and starts searching something on her phone. “There’s a jewelry store called Daughters and Co., D and Co. for short, and—oh, yes. They’re going to be tabling at Benson’s Harvest Festival two weeks from today.”

“What’s that?”

She reads her phone screen. “It looks like it’s their annual artisan fair. Family-run. There’s glassblowing.”

“Is that supposed to sell me?” I say.

“There’s leatherworking too,” she adds, scrolling. “It looks cute from the online pictures. We should go and see if anyone working the booth recognizes the ring. It says they do custom-engraving, so they might even remember who made the order. Could be a dead end, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Mrs. Montoya…” I tsk, shaking my head. “If you wanted to go on a date with me, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to stage a murder just to lure me to a fall festival.”

“If I wanted to go on a date with you, Mr. Chastain, I wouldn’t need to stage a murder,” she tosses back, but there’s no heat.

She smiles, a real one. It does something to my chest. “Look at us,” she says. “A Chastain and Montoya actually working together without any death threats.”

“Our grandfathers would be proud.”

For the first time, it doesn’t feel like the past is suffocating our future.